


Six Years Later

by superdeath



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, POV Second Person, Timeline What Timeline, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 05:24:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superdeath/pseuds/superdeath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six years ago, you would have thrown up until all you could do was dry heave into the toilet. Today, it seemed a petty occurrence. You are no longer twelve years old and stupid. [written 2005]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Years Later

**Author's Note:**

> Written a little bit after I read the chuunin exam arc/the failed retrieval of Sasuke. Implied unrequited Shikamaru + Naruto, Naruto + Sasuke. Implied character death. I like this one so it's going here haha.

It's six years later and you're standing outside in the Konoha winter with nothing but your t-shirt on and your shorts. Your feet stick on the ground, already wet from the shower and the sweat, freezing thin layers of ice between yourself and the cold, damp concrete. You were agitated, disgruntled, had no idea why the hell you went out of your way to see him. He was your Anbu partner, yes, but not someone worth worrying about.

As usual, bad news came in the shower. You were tired, and the weight of your spine was uncomfortably pulling you towards the tile floor of your bathroom. Like always, you pulled the black turtleneck over your head, briefly catching the soft knobs of your spine in the mirror, before slumping over farther to dispose of your pants and underwear. It was a practice of protocol, a normal shower after a normal mission after a normal loss of life. You could feel the ghost hands of your subordinate clenching at your biceps, a phantasmagoric awareness of blood on your hands and in your mouth. Tomorrow would be the time for paperwork and death letters, you did not have to deal with the same empty, tired lies tonight. The repeated words, copied upon each letter: Sorry for your loss, he was exemplary, amazing, loyal to his colleagues and his village.

He died honorably, ten seconds before the rest of the team planned to attack, thirty seconds before two others joined him, with a kunai to the jaw. You remembered vividly as the rivulets of heated water run down the white tile wall, you could hear the sound of bone splintering as the kunai tore off the bottom of his face. You remember the three teeth that embedded themselves at your feet, dug into the bark of the tree limb. He gurgled, with tongue flapping wildly, incoherent cries for his mother.

He's still out there, you think blankly, left behind as excess weight to the squad.

Six years ago, that would have left you bedridden for days. Six years ago, you would have thrown up until all you could do was dry heave into the toilet. Today, it seemed a petty occurrence. You are no longer twelve years old and stupid.

Six years ago, you used up that night of dry heaving when your friend died.

Exactly twenty seconds into your shower, a knock rings hard and loud into the apartment. The gesture is a polite one; everyone knows that you never bothered to lock your doors. You let out an exasperated sigh, heart still pumping adrenaline into your joints, acid in the muscles. Your wrists feel weak and shake minutely as you turn off the shower head, dry off quickly and pull on some shorts.

Three knocks later and you had opened the door. Naruto looks at you as if you were a ghost, and you find that funny at the time. Maybe you had laughed at his expression, hysterical half-giggles that shook your sore muscles painfully.

A bruise slowly spreads on your ribcage.

It hurts when he lays his hand on your shoulder, but you try not to flinch, even when he squeezes the muscle there in comfort. You wish your tongue would move, already thinking of some bland overused phrase to mutter, something about how troublesome missions were, how troublesome when showers and visitors came at the same time, something about something being troublesome sometime. Instead, you finish your fit of mad laughter with a raised eyebrow and a casual, "What is it?"

"Neji's dying," To the point, unblinkingly. You know Naruto is searching for another answer, stating the obvious was just a prequel to his real concern, "He said it was Sasuke."

At one time, that name roused an odd feeling, hatred perhaps. If anyone had asked, you would have probably said that you had hated Uchiha Sasuke. This feeling simmered and slowly degraded, you were never too good at keeping something going for long periods of time anyway. At times, you wonder if you are really such a monster as to forget to hate the man that killed your best friend, indirectly or not.

However, you had noticed, rather amusedly, that whenever Naruto said his name, that hatred felt like jealousy. It burned at the very edges of your lungs, made you swallow fire, made you bite the inside of your cheek and scowl. You wished your body was not so obviously stupid.

Now, the name felt like mist. It made you numb; it drifted slowly and icily inside your ribcage. If anyone asked you now what you thought of Uchiha Sasuke, you would elaborately tell them that you didn't give a flying fuck, only with more flowers and bells around the main idea.

Naruto waited a few moments, surprisingly calm when it came to the Uchiha, but his resolve snapped quickly, his other hand forcefully taking hold of your other shoulder, "Tell me, Shikamaru."

He looks hilarious, you are smiling painfully wide.

"Tell me, was it Sasuke?"

_'If you call that monster, Sasuke,'_ you want to say, _'Yeah. I saw him, I saw him and you know what the worst thing was, Naruto? He looked the same as he did six years ago,'_

You know you're still smiling like a maniac.

_'He made me want to throw up again, made me want to cry again over dead comrades. I felt like I was still only twelve and blindingly ignorant of my insignificance.'_

"Shikamaru," his voice is desperate, spread thin over years of searching, of wanting. You were one of the few to never get caught in the allure of Uchiha it seems.

Naruto was drowning in it.

Some wall inside you breaks apart, dissolves like a pill inside your stomach, and you can speak again. Sometimes you surprise yourself with your monotone, "Yeah, it was Sasuke."

He's wide eyed and hoping hoping _hoping_ so much that you are unable to really look into his face anymore. Other than the confirmation that Uchiha Sasuke still existed, ever existed, was a living breathing being on planet Earth, you could never figure out what else Naruto would want to hear. You do something out of character, you ask.

"What are you going to do?"

His hands leave your shoulders with red stains, and you automatically reach and rub one of your freed shoulders nervously. Naruto turns around and his shoulders droop, his muscles unwind and he answers you half-heartedly, "I guess I'll go kill him."

You notice he has stolen your thoughtless smile.

And, for some reason, you want to see Neji before he dies.


End file.
